


An E/R Trio

by jehanjoly (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Music, M/M, Painting, Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:57:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jehanjoly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three short unrelated E/R pieces inspired by "Again," by Hadley Fraser; "I Could Be In Love With Someone Like You," by Aaron Tveit and "A Case of You" by Aaron Tveit. Dedicated to tumblr user butihavejoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Again

_Please say something,_   
_Say anything at all,_   
_I can’t handle the silence._   
_Yes I know this is not the place or time,_   
_I can’t bear that I may lose you_   
_—Scott Alan, Again_

Enjolras thinks the gift is ridiculous. His credit card hasn’t even been processed at the used bookstore before he’s regretting the purchase. But he’d put it off buying something until the day of the wedding, so this was his punishment for procrastinating. He sighs as he walks out of the shop and into the bustle of the city, the gift – unwrapped – tucked into his messenger bag.

He walks uptown toward city hall. His gait is purposeful, making him indistinguishable from the businesspeople swarming the city on their lunch hour. But he has somewhere different to be.

Grantaire’s wedding.

It’s going to be a simple affair – city hall and a JP, followed by a luncheon at Pastis over in the meatpacking district. There will be flowers – Jehan will see to that – and the wine will flow freely among their group of friends, despite the fact that Grantaire has been remarkably sober for the past few months.

No big deal, Grantaire had said, when he told Enjolras about his impending marriage.

No big deal, Enjolras said to himself, as he ascends the steps to City Hall.

He almost believes it.

When he joins his group of friends in the lobby, they all turn to him. He’s been their leader in so many ways, but today he wants to fade into the background, just be another one of the guys. His friends look at his face with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy.

All they see is his steely blue eyes. Eyes that reveal nothing.

He holds himself a little bit apart from the group, but notices quickly that Grantaire is not among them. Where is he? he asks Jehan.

Jehan knows instantly who he is referring to and gestures wordlessly to other side of the lobby. Enjolras can see Grantaire, alone, perched on a couch. He is dressed in a suit and tie, and even from across the room Enjolras can see he is antsy.

Jehan puts a hand on his arm. You okay, chief?

Enjolras doesn’t answer. Instead he runs a hand through his close-cropped blond hair and he moves toward Grantaire.

He is halfway across the room when Grantaire sees him. Grantaire rises to his feet, rubbing his hands on his trousers.

Hey, Enjolras says as the two men’s eyes meet. Usually he has a lot to say on any topic, but today he can’t quite find the words.

Hey, says Grantaire in return. His black curls haven’t been combed, and he hasn’t shaved in a few days. But his blue eyes are clear, and Enjolras can see his new relationship has changed him. Happy? Comfortable? Sober? He can’t quite put his finger on it.

Enjolras shakes his reverie and reaches into his bag. I got this for you, Enjolras says, handing him the book.

Did you wrap it yourself? Grantaire asks teasingly.

Enjolras doesn’t answer, feebly gesturing at the book.

Grantaire turns it over and looks at the cover. Keats, eh? Jehan must have put you up to this.

Enjolras is silent. What he doesn’t say is that he was the one to go to Jehan last night, asking for suggestions of poets even a cynic like Grantaire may enjoy.

What he also doesn’t say is that he’d like nothing more than to grab him by the hand, lead him out of this stone building, and take him to his apartment downtown. He pictures them entangled in the sheets of his solitary twin bed in his studio. Feeding each other Chinese food. Reading that damn poetry book to each other. Falling asleep in each other arms…

He stops and looks at Grantaire. He wants to say it all out loud.

But he can’t.

Congratulations, Enjolras says instead. He embraces Grantaire awkwardly. I hope you’ll be very happy, he says quietly into his friend’s ear.

Thanks, Grantaire says in a husky voice. It means a lot, coming from you.

They break apart and look at each other. Enjolras sees something flash in Grantaire’s eyes. Regret? Enjolras can’t tell.

He can only hope.

They’re ready for us, Jehan interrupts. It’s your last chance to get out of it, R, he says jokingly, putting his arm around Grantaire’s shoulder.

Enjolras looks at his feet, then pulls himself together. Let’s do this, he says. Time to get these boys married.

And time to return to being the man – the rock — his friends all expect him to be.


	2. I Could be in Love with Someone Like You

_I got marks to make_   
_I got steps to climb_   
_It’s the perfect time_   
_I got books to write_   
_I got things to do_   
_I go out my door and bump into you_   
_And the jig is up and my vow if through_   
_I don’t know what I’m doing_   
_But come in and ruin me_

_\--Jason Robert Brown, I Could Be In Love With Someone Like You_

The routine was the same every morning. Grantaire would be sitting at his usual table at the café, sipping an enormous black coffee while he stared at his laptop screen, willing the words to appear on the page even as he was unwilling to actually compose them. What was he writing about? Damned if he knew anymore. The screeds he was composing were mostly stream of consciousness rants on the idea of life without meaning, without purpose.

He was pounding away on his laptop keyboard one morning, extolling the virtues of some philosopher – Kierkegaard, maybe, or more likely Nietzsche – when he looked up for a moment and noticed him for the first time. He was tall and blond, with a strong chin and a determined look in his eyes. Grantaire watched him as he ordered his coffee – a large non-fat vanilla latte – in a precise, firm voice. The young man waited patiently for his latte, scrolling through his iPhone, one foot tapping softly as he waited. When the coffee was delivered, he thanked the barista and strode out of the café and into the city streets. His walk was brisk – he was clearly a man with a place to be.

After he left Grantaire shook his head, startled. He had not taken his eyes off the other man the entire time.

It soon became a routine – at exactly 10:23, the blond walked in, ordered his coffee, and walked out. And for five minutes every day, Grantaire studied him like he studied his obscure philosophical texts.

He couldn’t do this, could he? He had essays to write, and domino games to play, and friends to argue with.

And yet he couldn’t stop watching from afar every time he came in.

This went on for almost three weeks, until the morning when 10:23 came and went – and Apollo didn’t arrive. Grantaire peered at his watch – he had been drinking excessively the night before, so it was possible he had the time wrong. But alas — no Apollo.

Grantaire shrugged and went up to the counter to ask for a refill.

He was looking down at his sneakers, waiting for the barista, when he heard a familiar voice.

“Large non-fat vanilla latte, please.” Grantaire looked up to see the blond standing next to him.

To Grantaire’s surprise, the blond turned to him. “Hey, I see you here all the time, man,” he said. “What are you working on over there?” he asked, gesturing toward the table where Grantaire had set up shop.

Grantaire shifted his weight back and forth. “Ummm…not much,” he stammered. “You know, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche…stuff like that.”

Stuff like that? he said to himself. Brilliant, R.

“Interesting,” the blond man said. “Life without meaning, huh? I don’t know if I can believe that.”

In that moment, looking into the other man’s eyes, Grantaire wasn’t so sure he could either.

“I’m Grantaire,” he said after a beat, extending his hand. “If you ever want to come over and chat, please do.”

“Enjolras,” he replied, shaking Grantaire’s hand. “How about now? My regular meeting was cancelled this morning. And I’d love to hear more about your thoughts on Kierkegaard.”

And with that Grantaire temporarily abandoned his philosophy and took up religion.


	3. A Case of You

_Oh but you are in my blood_  
 _You’re my holy wine_  
 _You’re so bitter and so sweet_

_Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling_  
 _And still be on my feet._

_—Joni Mitchell, A Case of You_

Enjolras was sitting at the bar, pondering the perils of a low tolerance for alcohol.

It didn’t matter what kind of wine he drank – it could be the expensive Burgundy he’d been raised to drink, or the cheap white zin from a box that Bahorel would bring to meetings of Les Amis. Every time he drank the outcome was the same.  
After the first glass he had a lovely warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

After two glasses his head started to hurt.

After a third glass – well, he’d only had more than two glasses in one sitting once in his life. Two weeks ago he’d managed to consume four glasses of wine, plus a shot of whiskey, after a particularly contentious organizational meeting. He had started fighting with Courfeyrac – about what topic, he never could remember. He did recall Combeferre taking Courf’s side in the argument, so Enjolras felt compelled to try using alcohol as an ally.

The result was that he had almost no recollection of the evening, other than Grantaire taking him home and tucking him into bed.

And of waking up the next morning with Grantaire curled up next to him on the bed, his dark curls splayed out on the other pillow.

And of a wine-sweetened kiss that had quickly escalated into something more.

The recollection prompted Enjolras to flag the bartender down and order another glass of Merlot. Just as he was taking his first sip, Jehan slid into the adjacent barstool.

“So how many is that, Enjy?” Jehan asked.

“Two,” Enjolras said quickly.

Jehan raised a sandy eyebrow.

“Two…ish,” Enjolras said sheepishly.

Jehan continued to stare at him.

“Fine, this is my third,” Enjolras said huffily. “What’s it to you?”

“Did you call him?” Jehan asked.

“Call who?” Enjolras said, avoiding his friend’s gaze.

“Jesus, Enjy, you know who,” Jehan said.

“Have you talked to him?” Enjolras asked, a little too anxiously.

“Not since last week,” Jehan answered. “But I did talk to Feuilly a couple of hours ago. They’ve been all over Provence – doing their best impression of Cezanne and Van Gogh, I guess.”

“Is he painting?” Enjolras asked hopefully.

“It sounds like it,” Jehan replied, to Enjolras’s relief.

“Is he drinking?” Enjolras asked, cringing a bit in anticipation of the answer.

Jehan hesitated for a second. “Feuilly says—well, he says he’s sticking to wine, at least. No hard stuff, no drugs.” He scanned Enjolras’s face. “So that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, it is,” Enjolras said, swirling the wine in his glass.

“You should call him, Enjy,” Jehan implored. “I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said. “It was kind of weird when he left…” he trailed off, recalling that morning in bed.

“So you fucked him,” Jehan said with an uncharacteristic lack of poetry. “What’s the big deal?”

“Jehan, how did you—” Enjolras was indignant.

“After he left you that day, he came over to my place—” Jehan said.

“Where he blabbed everything to you as soon as he could,” Enjolras interrupted.

“He didn’t say anything. I guessed,” Jehan said. “I’d never seen his eyes shine that much as they did that day. At least, not when he was sober.”

“He was sober that day,” Enjolras recalled.

“He was drunk on something else, I think,” Jehan said quietly.

Enjolras stared at his wineglass. His head felt like it was somehow detached from the rest of him.

Maybe it was the third glass of wine.

Or maybe he was also drunk on something else.

Jehan handed Enjolras his phone, which had been sitting on the bar. “Call,” he implored.

Enjolras looked at Jehan for a long moment, then walked out of the bar and onto the street to make the call.

Grantaire answered on the third ring. “Oh, hey,” he said. To Enjolras’s relief, he sounded mostly coherent.

“Hey,” Enjolras said. “How’s Provence?”

“Gorgeous,” Grantaire said. “We’re outside painting every day. It’s been—productive. I’ve been painting a lot. I feel almost – inspired.”

“That’s good to hear,” Enjolras said, relief flooding over him.

They were both silent for a while, then Grantaire blurted out, “I miss you, E.”

Enjolras was taken aback for a moment, then recovered to say, “Me too.”

“I’ll be back on Sunday,” Grantaire said. “Do you—-want me to come see you?”

Enjolras could hear the hesitancy in the other man’s voice. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he said, smiling for the first time that evening.

“Hey, I’d better go – Feuilly and I are going out in Aix. But Enjolras—” Grantaire hesitated. “I’m really glad you called,” he said.

Before Enjolras could respond, the call ended.

He stared at the phone, letting the conversation wash over him. For the first time in his life he felt completely and totally drunk.

And Enjolras was pretty sure it wasn’t just a low tolerance for Merlot.


End file.
